Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

H ow much was one man supposed to withstand? Charlotte was his wife! But even if he hadn't promised her, he would never force himself on a woman. It was unthinkable. "You should go back to your room." Like his unending impetuosity, the words flew from his lips.

Lips .

He glanced again at Charlotte's, the sweet taste of them still lingering on his own. The touch of her fingertips on his bare chest scorched his skin. How could a person dislike another with such a blazing intensity, and yet have that same fire ignite an inferno of desire in their blood?

And when they finally gave in to their undeniable attraction, would they go up in flames like a phoenix?

He was more than willing to find out. "Unless you want to stay?" He toyed with the shoulder of her nightrail. "Perhaps more kissing in less exposed places?" Hooking a finger in the edge of the material, he tugged it down an inch. "Here, perhaps? "

She hesitated, and his heart stuttered with hope. Would she stay? Welcome the continuation of his seduction?

Blinking as if realizing where they were headed, she stepped back and yanked her nightdress back into place. "I should slap you."

"Ha! So it's perfectly fine for you to run your hands all over my chest, but I can't even touch your shoulder?" He stared her down. "You are such a hypocrite, Charlotte Beckham. Deny it all you wish, but you want me as much as I want you!"

She answered him by storming from the room and slamming the door behind her.

"I hope you're up all night thinking of me," he muttered. Climbing into the cold bed, he knew he'd just sentenced himself to the same fate.

"What a nightmare." He ran a hand down his face, wondering how the hell he was ever going to make this sham of a marriage work.

Lord knows when he finally fell asleep. He'd tossed and turned all night dreaming of Charlotte. When he finally woke, he cracked an eye open, cursing the beam of light coming in through the slit in the curtain. Leave it to the sun to shine directly in his eyes.

After dragging himself from bed, Simon rang for Brown, his usually sunny mood foul. Married four days and he still hadn't bedded his own wife. He began to lose hope that Charlotte would capitulate to his—questionable—seduction tactics.

When Brown arrived, he assembled everything for Simon's morning shave. "Sleep well, sir?" he asked as he finished lathering Simon's face.

"Not especially," Simon said.

His valet wisely remained silent.

The woman would be the death of him. The irony of the idea and his precarious future slammed Simon in the chest like a hammer .

"Ha!"

Brown drew back, the razor—the edge lined with soap and dark beard stubble—poised above Simon's chin. "Sir?" The valet gazed down to where he'd just scraped Simon's face. "I don't see a cut."

"It's my wife, Brown. I've never known a woman so . . . so . . . difficult."

Brown chuckled, lowering the razor to continue his task. "I like her. She seems like a no-nonsense type of woman." He flicked the soapy film off the razor into a bowl of warm water. "Just what you need. Now, lift your chin while I get your neck."

"She'd sooner slit my throat with that razor than let me touch her. How the hell am I supposed to produce an heir with a wife who won't let me bed her?" Simon hated admitting that—especially to his valet. But with Drake unavailable, he had little choice in male confidants. He certainly wouldn't confess to his father the reason he married Charlotte.

"Hold still, sir, or you'll be in no condition to bed anyone."

"Ha. Ha." Yet Simon remained frozen while Brown scraped soap from his throat.

However, talking and wielding a razor wasn't a problem for Brown. "From what I hear from Miss Rose, Lady Charlotte has had little reason to be happy. Rose said Lord Edgerton's cruelty extended to his own family."

"You don't have to tell me about the blackguard Edgerton." Still, what type of cruelty did Charlotte endure under her brother's roof? More than an attempt to marry her to another blackguard and shredding her clothing in spite? Had Edgerton laid hands on his own sister? Simon shuddered at the thought.

"Sir!" Brown shot him a warning, then scraped the last bit of soap from Simon's face.

"Have the cook prepare some coffee, if she has it on hand," Simon said as Brown finished tying his neckcloth .

His valet cocked an eyebrow, but nodded, taking the bowl of—now soapy and whisker-dotted—water away and left.

Dressed and shaved, Simon made his way to the dining room, grateful to find it empty. He wasn't quite ready to face his wife.

The hearty breakfast of sausage, toast, and—yes—coffee revived his spirits. When Charlotte entered, looking almost as haggard as he felt, an unhealthy satisfaction warmed his chest. Well, that might have been the coffee, but Simon wasn't going to split hairs.

"Good morning, Wife. Sleep well?" He added an extra dose of sarcasm to the same question his valet had asked him.

She grunted a response. Grunted! Excellent. Simon mentally rubbed his hands together in glee.

She darted a glance toward his cup. "Is that coffee?"

"Yes." He lifted his chin toward the elegant silver container on the sideboard.

She poured herself a cup, then took a seat several places from his.

Yet, even at that distance, the dark smudges under her eyes were visible. Suddenly, the idea of her tossing and turning the majority of the night didn't please him as much as it had moments before.

You're growing soft .

Regrouping, he marshaled a comment sure to vex her. "I know something guaranteed to help you sleep." He took a sip of his own bitter beverage. "If you're interested."

"Hmph. What might that be? Hit me over the head and render me unconscious?"

"Heavens, no. Violence is the opposite of what I have in mind. Although it can be...vigorous." Not quite a leer, he flashed her a sultry look that sent most women swooning.

"What is it?" she asked, staring into her coffee.

When he didn't answer, she lifted her gaze to his and her cheeks darkened. "Oh. "

"It's quite effective in relaxing the mind and body." He sipped his coffee for another pregnant pause. "If done properly."

"Then I'm sure I have missed nothing."

Oh. That did it! She could insult his intelligence, but attacking his skills in the bedroom was beyond the pale.

Pushing his plate aside, he rose and strode toward the window. Overcast skies replaced the sun that had awoken him. No doubt the one dastardly beam had broken through simply to nettle him. He needed a diversion, something pleasant to get his mind off his wife. He knew just the thing, and it lifted his spirits. "Since you find my company so distasteful, I shall give you a wedding gift and make myself scarce. It's a perfect day for fishing. Please make yourself at home while I'm gone."

"I thought this was my home now," she grumbled.

Right .

He turned, only to have his breath hitch.

Bent over her coffee, she offered him a view of her long, graceful—and very kissable—neck.

His lips tingled just looking at it. With quiet steps, he moved behind her, bending over to whisper in her ear. "Unless you want me to stay, and we could continue where we left off last night." He traced a fingertip from the sensitive spot under her ear to the juncture of that kissable neck and her shoulder.

She stiffened, her answer clear before she spoke it. "No."

"Very well." Anxious to remove himself from further temptation, he left her without a word of goodbye.

After grabbing an old battered hat and shoving it on his head, he gathered his tackle and strode from the house.

The fish would be better company. At least they might take his bait.

With Simon off fishing—if indeed that's what he was doing—Charlotte grew restless sitting in the cottage alone. When she tried to read, Elizabeth Bennet's growing ardor for Mr. Darcy made Charlotte's mind reel back to the delicious kisses Simon had lavished on her the previous evening, not to mention those she herself had initiated.

Had she truly been so bold as to tug the man's mouth to hers? Why, yes. Yes, she had, and the feeling of being in control sent a surge of power through her. Not to mention Simon's reaction. For a man so experienced—at least to hear him tell it—she seemed to affect him as much as he did her.

She had tossed and turned all night, wondering if she should have allowed him to take things further.

Gah! She would grow mad dwelling on it. She needed something else to occupy her thoughts. She tossed the book aside, rose and looked out the window, pleased earlier clouds had dissipated and the sun dappled the ground outside.

A walk would clear her head and push thoughts of Simon Beckham's roguish grin and talented lips from her mind.

After grabbing her bonnet and a pelisse, she slipped out the front door without a word to any of the servants.

Fragrant lilac floated on the gentle breeze, the grounds between the cottage and the main house immaculately maintained. Away from Simon's watchful eyes, she dropped her armor and freely appreciated the beauty around her, stooping to pick a few flowers, lifting them to her nose, and inhaling deeply.

Birds chirped in the trees, and she spied a nest of robins, the mother bird feeding her young. The sight reminded her Simon would need an heir. Which, in turn, reminded her of the kisses they shared and the passion sparking between them.

It would seem nothing could distract her from thinking about the irritating man.

Even with the abundance of fragrant flowers filling the cottage—the vision of the petals on the bed rising—she couldn't resist picking a few more wildflowers. She thought of the forget-me-nots adorning Honoria's hair at her wedding to the duke. Such a simple flower, but the meaning it held for her dear friends was unmistakable.

One lone daffodil clung to life under the shade of an enormous oak. She laughed, thinking of Simon once again, and how she had compared him to the sunny flower. Pausing, she considered picking it. It would wither and drop its petals soon anyway, returning to slumber and resting until the next spring.

Perhaps she would place it on Simon's pillow, and she could already hear his laugh, wild and free. Decision made, she apologized to the flower before pinching the stem close to the ground.

She ambled along, breathing in the fresh country air, basking in the warm sun upon her cheeks, the rays striping the ground and dancing amid the swaying leaves on the trees.

Peaceful, idyllic. That she would someday be the mistress of the entire estate gave her pause. She would easily grow to love her new home. Not because of the size, beauty, or wealth of the estate itself, but because of the contentment being there generated in her parched soul. And she had Simon Beckham to thank for it.

In the past, when Charlotte had envisioned marriage—and admittedly it had not been often— it had always been to a well-titled man with vast holdings. Both her father and her brother had expected her to marry well and extend their connections within society and their power in the government.

Charlotte had not expected contentment from those imagined unions, and certainly not happiness. But at that moment, she glimpsed the possibility for both. She might even begin to feel safe.

A laugh flew from her lips at the ludicrous idea.

"Charlotte?" a feminine voice called. Frannie stood before her, a basket of flowers clutched in her hands. "It appears we had the same idea. Although I like your choices more than my own. Where in the world did you find a remaining daffodil? I thought they had all died off."

Charlotte's gaze darted to the yellow bloom clutched in her hand, ready to make an apology that wasn't quite an apology. "Hiding among some tall grass over by that oak." She pointed in the direction she had come. "It reminded me of Simon, so I couldn't resist."

Frannie's eyebrow hitched. "Oh? Because of the Greek myth?"

No wonder Charlotte liked the girl. "Precisely. I hope you don't mind that I plucked it."

"Pfft." Frannie waved the apology away. "You may as well take it and enjoy it while you can. I'm surprised it survived this long." She held out an arm. "Why don't you come inside, and we'll put your selections in some water to keep them fresh. Mama is teaching Georgie to embroider, and I'm sure Mama could use some intelligent conversation, and Georgie would love the distraction."

Ah, things Charlotte excelled at—both intelligent conversation and embroidery. "I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense. And considering you're out here by yourself, I suspect Simon is off doing goodness knows what. It's rude of him to leave you alone on your honeymoon. Mama will have his head."

"Well, in that case." Charlotte drew an unhealthy satisfaction from the thought of Mrs. Beckham giving Simon a dressing down for neglecting his new wife. Not that Charlotte minded. She followed Frannie back to the main house, surprised how closely she had wandered to it on her own.

As Frannie predicted, Mrs. Beckham raged in indignation on Charlotte's behalf as she rang for tea and water for Charlotte's bouquet. "That boy! He's usually so considerate, my dear. I reared him to be better than that. But I will have a firm word with him. Have no fear."

Frannie shot Charlotte an I told you look, then excused herself, saying she had some writing to attend to.

Odd, but Charlotte found herself defending her husband. "He did mention something about a favorite fishing spot. And with the favorable weather..."

"He's probably still trying to catch Big Gus," Georgie said, poking a needle through a tortured piece of fabric.

"Big Gus? Who, or should I say what, is Big Gus?"

"He's a brown trout. About as big as me," Georgie said, not looking up from her tangle of thread.

Charlotte huffed a laugh. "I'm sure you exaggerate."

"She does," Mrs. Beckham said. "But only because she's grown since the last time Gus got away from Mr. Beckham and Simon. It was right before Simon left for the military. Not one to give up on things, Simon is obsessed with catching that fish. So there's no telling how big Gus is now."

"If the fish is still alive. Didn't Simon meet the Duke of Burwood in the military? Honoria said His Grace had been in India for eight years. That is an extraordinarily long life for a fish."

A maid arrived with a tea tray. Mrs. Beckham poured a cup for Charlotte. "Indeed. Simon enlisted seven years ago." Mrs. Beckham cast a glance toward Georgie. But Georgie's attention remained glued to her embroidery. "He met Drake—I mean His Grace—later."

Curiosity niggled at Charlotte's mind. Was there something about Simon's military service she wished to hide from Georgie?

Charlotte sipped the tea, mulling over the possibilities.

"But"—Mrs. Beckham's attention returned to Charlotte, her smile open and genuine—"I'm sure you are correct, and Gus has gone to the great river beyond."

Georgie snorted. "Simon says Gus is too mean to die. "

Such ridiculous conversation normally annoyed Charlotte. But at the moment, she found herself enjoying it immensely.

Beth rushed into the room. "Mama! Frannie has taken all my ink and paper. She says her silly novel is more important than my letter to Mr. Thorpe."

Mrs. Beckham uttered a long-suffering sigh. "Can't the two of you work something out? I'm trying to help Georgie with her embroidery."

Beth shook her head. "She's locked herself in her room and won't answer me."

Exhaling another sigh, Mrs. Beckham gave Charlotte an apologetic smile. "These girls will be the death of me. If you will excuse me, Lady Charlotte."

"If you wish, I can assist Georgie. I'm skilled at embroidery." Anger flashed through her remembering her father's overheard words. All women are good for are bedding and embroidery .

"Thank you, my dear." Mrs. Beckham flashed an appreciative smile, then rushed from the room.

Alone with Georgie, Charlotte studied the child. So like Simon with her dark hair, clear-blue eyes, and exuberant spirit. Surprisingly, Charlotte found she rather liked children—at least older ones and, of course, Honoria's adorable daughter Kitty.

Could motherhood be less foreboding than she'd imagined? Contrary to her statement, Mrs. Beckham certainly seemed to enjoy it. Did her own mother enjoy her children? Charlotte always remembered her as gentle but with an aching sadness about her—little wonder considering her tyrant of a husband. When she died so young, Charlotte became like a rudderless ship upon the sea. But perhaps she could learn from Judith.

"Charlotte, may I ask you something?"

"Of course. But depending on your question, I might decline to answer."

Georgie laughed. "I like you. Why do women have to learn to embroider? I'm no good at it. Mama says the back of the fabric should appear much like the front." She turned the hoop over, exposing a tangled mess of thread.

"Embroidery is considered a genteel activity. It keeps a woman's hands and mind busy and away from other things." At least that's what Charlotte's mother had told her.

"Such as?"

Charlotte blinked. "Well...I'm not quite sure." However, memories of Simon's kisses made an appearance. "I suppose it's one of the things that mothers pass down to daughter and are never quite sure who started the tradition or why."

"It's silly. Why should someone be forced to do something they don't like or aren't good at?"

The girl had a point. "Given a choice, what would you like to learn?

"Fencing," the child said without hesitation. "I've seen Simon fence, and it looks like such fun. Being able to poke someone with a rapier!" She frowned at her embroidery, stabbing the cloth with gusto.

Charlotte laughed, something she was doing with unexpected regularity, the sensation wonderful. "I have a suspicion you would be quite good at it."

Georgie beamed, and something in Charlotte's heart cracked. Not precisely painful, but unnerving nonetheless.

She must remain on guard. Her heart was at risk.